Updating drivers - annoyed that the mouse wheel won't scroll in M$ Office 2007.
Looks like the registry's been corrupted. Tried out HiJackThis - pretty cool tool - suggests registry is at least fouled - system still boots, but the regitry is messed up.
Found Lenovo / IBM's Rescue and Recovery (T61) may enable restore to point-in-time ("one button recovery" - right - but ...). Waiting for a complete backup to attempt. Man, there's a lot of junk on this workstation.
Friday, March 28, 2008
38. From a Railway Carriage. Stevenson, Robert Louis. 1913. A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods
38. From a Railway Carriage. Stevenson, Robert Louis. 1913. A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
Gotta like the bartleby.com
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
Gotta like the bartleby.com
Friday, March 21, 2008
What's in a name?
Important stuff - naming things. Words and all.
I'm tired.
Seemed a good name at the time.
So - from Keats:
How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds—the whispering of the leaves—
The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,—and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
John Keats
Thanks to: Poem Hunter
I'm tired.
Seemed a good name at the time.
So - from Keats:
How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds—the whispering of the leaves—
The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,—and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
John Keats
Thanks to: Poem Hunter
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